Authors: Roz Southey
Then he started to run, and I started to run, and he was gone down a side street in a flash, and I was left staring at empty air and cursing.
And after that, there was nothing to do but sit on the stone base of the churchyard railings and wait for Bedwalters. And pray that the ruffians did not come back.
Died: Suddenly, Miss Julia Mazzanti, in the 17th year of her age. By her death, the theatre has been robbed of a promising ornament.
[
Newcastle Courant
19 June 1736]
I sat in the drawing room of Mrs Baker’s lodging house listening to the sounds of grief. The door was ajar to the hallway; it was a small house and sounds carried.
Upstairs, John Mazzanti was shouting with rage – I heard Bedwalters the constable raising his voice unwontedly in an effort to calm him. Across the hall, Ciara Mazzanti was sobbing,
melodramatic hysterical wails; Mrs Baker’s soft consoling murmurs were hardly audible.
And there was Philip Ord too, raising his voice to snap at Bedwalters. Ord was closer, halfway up or down the stairs.
The ornate clock on the mantelpiece ticked; a fox barked outside in the street. I could not stop thinking about the events of the night, as if reliving them might somehow change them.
Bedwalters had taken twenty minutes to reach Amen Corner; he must have been in bed and needed to dress. He looked worn, as he increasingly did these days. He stared down at me as I hunched
against the stone base on which the churchyard railings stood, then at the bundle of white fabric. He bent to examine the body.
I was disorientated, still half-drunk and aching, still stunned by Julia’s death. I could not get out of my mind that vision of Julia in the other world, that exact copy in looks yet
subtly different in demeanour. In my stupefied state, I kept thinking that it was she who had died. But I gathered my wits sufficiently to give Bedwalters an account of the night. I explained away
my dishevelled state by telling him Corelli and I had tangled with robbers, not wanting to have to admit to my argument with the ruffians. I could see Bedwalters thinking we must have been easy
prey; drunken men always are. Bedwalters does not drink or at least nothing more than the communion wine. I told him everything else truthfully, about the shot at the theatre, the attacks on
Mazzanti in London and York, about the attempted burglary at the lodging house. And at the end of the recital I was no wiser for all the words I’d expended and doubted that Bedwalters was
either.
“Why Julia?” I said stupidly. My head was thick with drink. “If it had been her father, that would have made sense.”
He stared at me for a moment, then said, “She was abused, Mr Patterson, grossly abused. Perhaps there is nothing more to it than that.”
“A passer by who took advantage of the fact she was on her own? Her father is attacked three or four times but she is the one who dies? I don’t believe it. Too much of a
coincidence.”
“Stranger things have happened,” he said.
“And what was she doing out of doors at this time of night!?”
Bedwalters sent for two labourers and they bore the girl back to Mrs Baker’s lodging house, five or six streets away. Bedwalters went ahead like the chief mourner; I stumbled behind like
the drunken village idiot. And somewhere in the dark streets, Philip Ord came running up to us and let out a great gasp of horror that turned into impotent rage. In heaven’s name, had he
really felt that strongly about the girl?
At last we reached the door of Mrs Baker’s lodging house; Bedwalters hesitated then rapped the knocker twice, sharply, almost wincing at the loudness of the noise. It did seem
disrespectful. Mazzanti himself opened the door, reeking of drink and looking befuddled; Bedwalters was forced to repeat his dreadful news three times. When the message finally sank home, Mazzanti
stared down at Julia’s limp body with something akin to desperation. Quite apart from the natural love a father must bear his daughter, the girl had been his sole secure source of income; he
was looking at the certainty of poverty.
Finally, he said, “He took her instead of me.”
Bedwalters was confused. “Who would that be, sir?”
Mazzanti gestured helplessly. “There was a woman,” he said, “In London. And some noble lord. I didn’t know…” He put a hand to his face, hiding his eyes.
“Patterson will tell you.”
Hurriedly, I outlined the story of the courtesan Mazzanti had laid siege to and the anonymous aristocrat who had taken offence. Bedwalters’s face grew longer with disapproval and set hard.
I could not blame him; if it was true, it was hardly a story that rebounded to Mazzanti’s credit. When I had finished, he turned his calm gaze on Mazzanti; in a voice that oozed incredulity,
he said, “And you think this lord has killed your daughter in order to warn you off trifling with his mistress?”
Mazzanti burst into tears.
We all stood around, looking at the door, the walls, the ground, in helpless embarrassment.
The clock chiming brought me back to the present, to Mrs Baker’s comfortable drawing room. I heard footsteps on the stairs and glanced out of the half-open door. Philip Ord was hesitating
on the bottom step of the stairs, as if he didn’t know whether to leave the house or not. He was wearing drab clothes, fashionable but dull; at some point in the evening he must have lost his
wig, and his scalp, freshly shaved that day, gleamed in the fitful light of candles on a small table in the hall. He half-turned, turned back, turned again. With a sudden burst of energy, he took
the stairs in bounds of two and three. They creaked loudly. From across the hall came a fresh burst of wailing.
I got up from the too comfortable chair and walked about in front of the empty fireplace. My back still ached, but the first sharpness of the pain had gone. All this noise –
Mazzanti’s shouts, his wife’s wailing, Ord’s rants: it was as if I was still at the theatre, listening to the comedians strut their parts. When my own mother died, I was twelve
years old; I did not speak to a soul for a week. That was uncomprehending grief – not this weeping and wailing fit to wake the whole street.
A knock at the street door. In the flurry of disbelief, no one had thought to take the knocker off the door or to mute it. A scurry of footsteps in the hall, a murmur of conversation. Then Mrs
Baker’s little maid, no more than fourteen years old, appeared in the doorway with a scared little bob.
“Mr Heron, sir.”
She fled. Claudius Heron shut the door and came across to the fireplace where I stood. He knew what had happened, that was certain, for he was dressed in respectful dark colours.
“Mrs Baker sent for me,” he said without preamble. “Signora Mazzanti is apparently uncontrollable with grief; Mrs Baker thought I might have enough influence to calm
her.”
We listened to the wailing, still loud even through a closed door. “Foreigners,” Heron said, without heat, “tend to indulge their emotions.”
The mantelpiece clock chimed two in the morning as I explained to Heron what had happened. He was not as credulous as Bedwalters or perhaps knew me better, for he had the true story of the
ruffians out of me, with a few deft questions.
As we talked, we heard the sound of John Mazzanti and Philip Ord, shouting at each other upstairs.
“Is the girl’s body up there?” Heron asked.
I nodded. “Gale the barber surgeon has been sent for to examine it but the merest onlooker could see what was done to her. Raped and strangled.”
“And they are arguing over whose fault it was, no doubt.”
The door of the drawing room opened and Bedwalters came in, looking wearier than ever. The shouting from upstairs did not cease. He was plainly disconcerted to see Heron.
“This idea of Mazzanti’s,” I said, “that some lord in London must have had Julia killed as punishment for her father flirting with his mistress – it’s
preposterous.”
“Indeed,” Bedwalters said.
“But the shootings are real enough. I was there when the last shot was fired and Mr Heron knows someone who saw the incident in York.”
Heron nodded.
“He’s justifying his neglect of her,” I said. “If he hadn’t been drunk, if he’d kept a better watch on her, she wouldn’t have got out of the
house.” I remembered how the stairs creaked; had Mazzanti been too drunk to hear that?
Bedwalters lowered himself wearily into a chair. “This fellow you saw bending over the body, Mr Patterson. Did you recognise him?”
I shook my head. “Much too dark.”
“Could it have been the Italian fellow?”
“Corelli?” I said, startled. “No, not in the least – he is a much bigger man.”
“The attacks on Mazzanti himself, the burglary, and the death of the girl would suggest a feud against the family,” Heron pointed out. “And who more likely to be the
perpetrator than another Italian?”
“Corelli could not have killed the girl,” I said. “He was with me all evening.” But then I stopped because there had been a little while between our parting at Mrs
Hill’s and Corelli’s rescuing me. But surely that had been not long enough for Corelli to rape and murder Julia? And how could he possibly have known the girl would be out of doors and
an easy target?
“I automatically suspect someone with so obviously an invented name,” Heron said.
Bedwalters shook his head, eased his shoulders against the back of the chair. “It is an invented name, certainly, but for a reason.”
“You know him?” Heron asked sharply.
“He came to me yesterday,” Bedwalters said. “He is a government agent. Looking for spies.”
I stared at him incredulously. But why not? Newcastle is a port, regiments are stationed at Tynemouth and the political situation in the Indies is perilous –
“But why invent an Italian name?” I demanded. “The fellow could pass for English – he speaks without an accent, perfectly fluently. If he had an English name no one would
notice him. But to draw attention to himself with a foreign name!”
“He thinks Mazzanti is a spy,” Bedwalters said.
To me this was perfectly ridiculous. To Heron and Bedwalters, apparently, it was at least possible. They discussed political implications at length. I listened and posed
questions that were never answered. Bedwalters had evidently seen Corelli’s papers and had no doubt as to their authenticity. I wanted to know why, in that case, Corelli had so obviously
wanted to get away and refused to fetch Bedwalters. Heron speculated that a musician of some international stature (or married to one) was ideally placed to travel and examine sensitive areas
without rousing suspicion. I asked why, if Mazzanti was a spy, his daughter was the victim. And why had Corelli been open about his real purpose with Bedwalters, who was after all a mere constable?
How could that have benefited him? But I didn’t voice that last question – it was hardly complimentary to Bedwalters.
I let the two talk, rearranging the ornaments on the mantelshelf. There was, of course, the usual way in which deaths were resolved. In three days’ time, or thereabouts, Julia
Mazzanti’s spirit would disembody and could be questioned about the circumstances of her death. But the victims of violent deaths are often traumatised and confused by the experience and
their testimonies are not always reliable; besides, we had found her face down, with a wound to her temple. Had she fallen, been dazed, perhaps knocked unconscious? Had her attacker raped and
strangled her while she was unconscious? Julia might have seen or known nothing.
Perhaps her testimony would clear up the mystery but it was unwise to count on it. And any help she could give us was three days away, at least, and meanwhile the murderer could still make
another attempt on Mazzanti’s life. Did I care? I wasn’t sure I did. But I cared about Julia – or rather, I cared about the woman I’d seen in the other world. She had had an
edge of something extra about her that drew my sympathy. But she had not died; her counterpart – an altogether more unsympathetic person – had.
Damn it, why didn’t I just leave it to Bedwalters?
He was looking at me intently. “I understand,” he said, “that you left Signor Corelli at Mrs Hill’s?”
“Yes – ”
“And the attack did not occur until some time later.”
The sentence hung in the air. I stared at him; he looked back wearily. It was a moment or two before I took in his meaning. I had been wondering all this time if Corelli had had time between our
parting and his rescue of me to attack Julia; Bedwalters had turned the matter around and was wondering if between our parting and Corelli’s rescue of me, I had had time to attack the
girl.
My God, he suspected me.
We shield our daughters from the perils of this life and this is only proper; it is the duty of a good father.
[
Instructions to a Son newly come of Age
, Revd. Peter Morgan (London: published for the Author, 1691)]
I was abruptly aware how tired I was, how far from sober. I took a deep breath. Bedwalters was obliged to ask questions about the girl’s death – it was natural that
he should want to know what I had been doing. But before I could speak, Heron snapped, “Are you accusing Patterson of this foul crime?”
Bedwalters was plainly as weary as I. “I am investigating whether – ”
“It is patently obvious,” Heron said, with a voice like steel, “that it is the work of some ruffian who came across the girl by chance.”
“Like the ruffians chasing Mr Patterson for instance?” Bedwalters suggested. “Do you wish Mr Gale to examine you, sir?”
Lord, now he was suggesting I might be faking my injuries.
I began to think Heron was just making matters worse but he wasn’t finished yet. He was obviously making a great effort to control his temper. “Patterson is hardly likely to have
called for your assistance if he had perpetrated the crime!”
“He might have, if he thought the girl’s spirit might accuse him.” Bedwalters might be weary but he was proud of his office and he would not compromise it. And he would not be
less than civil, whereas Heron, usually so cool and collected, was showing signs of being heated.
I hurried to defuse the situation. “It’s my opinion Julia will accuse no one,” I said and outlined my theory. “And I think it looks like the villain took the precaution
of attacking her from behind in which case she will have known nothing. Why was she out so late? Do you know?”